


Raw prints on a jagged page

by elizaria



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Biting, Drunkenness, Kink, Marking, Multi, showersex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 03:09:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaria/pseuds/elizaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(wrote this fic before I saw the season 2 final) This is my take on how things could have gone after the trial if you harddraw the anger and possibilites of selfdestruction</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raw prints on a jagged page

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: goes AU after 2.21 Happy Go Lucky  
> Warnings: biting/marking, umm.. angst?

_The target is me, a monster you flee  
I hate what you say and you do  
A mirror is there and look if you dare  
The fool that you see's only you_  
~ I'm Alive, W.A.S.P

 

These days, when he wakes up sober, he always cringes at the thought of getting out of bed. When he wakes drunk, he doesn't give a fuck. Which is why those are the better days, when it doesn't matter what surprises gets thrown in your face. When you feel numb, pleasantly buzzed and not sure what time of the day is. Logan works hard to gets those kind of days.

Sometimes those days brings memories he can touch and taste on his body in the mornings after. Like bitemarks on his chest, bruises made by fingers digging deep and angry patches of stubbleburns. Tell-tale shades of red, sharp in the morning light against skin that's been hidden from the sun. Surferboy doesn't live here any more.

Or those days when he can still taste Veronica on his lips, on his chin and on his fingers. Sometimes even Veronica Mars has days where she can't stop in time or run away. Doesn't matter how much she regrets it, how she makes sure he knows just how much she regrets him - _them_. So far past wrong it's not even right any more.

Push a girl too far and even the ones that remade themselves into steel won't be able to stop the pain around them from eroding them from the outside in. Nowadays the formerly saint known as Veronica Mars has days. Special days where pushing the inner pain outside and using her body as a punishment is the thing of the day.

But Logan has no interest in waging wars with Veronica Mars anymore, he's already keeled over and given her his throat. So perhaps she refuses look him in the eye. Or she digs her hands in deep into his back, scorching him with her nails and her teeth in his neck, so she wouldn't let any of the needy sounds he knows is crowding behind her teeth to escape. He feels it in her skin, sees it in her when she's not looking cause he knows it so well (_too well_) from himself. That sometimes your enemy can help you feel better than if they were friends, lovers. Cause softness has no place here. Love definitely not.

No, only hollowness that needs to be banished by skin, touch and teeth. By her nails on his thighs, on his hips and tears in her eyes as she climbs to that elusive point where she no longer has to think.  


\-----

  
On some days when Logan closes his eyes he sees Weevil in front of him, those ridiculously long lashes glistening with water drops and the rigid stare in anger and worry. The way Weevil had looked at him, ready to kick his ass for getting that drunk alone and the relief to know he woke up from the cold shower. The chill that was soon forgotten because seeing that someone actually gave a damn, felt the strong hands holding him up and he just had to have a taste. To taste what it felt like to still care, cause he'd given up on himself.

Logan's still wondering why Weevil didn't kick him to the ground and call him a faggot... Why Weevil let Logan kiss him so desperately, let him dig deep into him and find strength he didn't know was there... not for him anyway. Tasting the bitterness of tequila and the sour lemon, salt on his skin and blood on his lip. Logan hadn't even realized he'd dug so hard he'd split Weevil's lip. He was still too numb, the liquor still too much inside him, making things a hazy mess. What he'd wanted then when he spent this evening as most other evenings swallowing mouthfuls of the stinging liquid, but not now. Now he wished he was sober enough to feel this more. Because he never expected to get a repeat of this.

But then he'd never expected he'd _want_ a repeat of this.

White teeth sinking into his shoulder as he digs his hands down Weevil's pants, hard and hot and smooth in his fist. He's not sober enough to make this anything but sloppy and uncoordinated, but he makes up for it with a frenetic energy to get there, to feel something that's not painful and sad and fucked up. His system's still too overloaded on hard liquor to get anywhere, but he enjoys the hot hands on his goose pimpled skin. Gasping, swallowing water as Weevil twists a nipple and sucks a bruise just above the collar of his drenched shirt. His hands are slippery on Weevil's skin, but a couple of jerks more and Weevil's slick warm mouth bites down on a shuddering groan and it makes Logan smile.

That was the first time, and he'd forgotten about it. Till he was reminded.  


\-----

  
Most days Logan can't stand to look at himself in the mirror. The fleeting glances he tosses towards it before he leaves the house to make sure the hair's right doesn't count. Not that he leaves the house much these days. No, mirrors are not his friend cause standing in front of the mirror too long means looking at yourself. And seeing what you've become.

He wonders what the fuck happened? Where did the guy he used to be go? Did that person die with Lilly? Or was the change inevitable, and Lilly was just postponing it by being there? Or is there even a me, myself and I? Maybe he's just bouncing off others, a charade to match the setting he's put in. Logan never wanted to be like his father and instead he's played right into his hands, done him a favour that will forever taste like failure and letting everyone down. Everyone that mattered. There had been too many chips taken off the old block and there's nothing left.

Scar-tissue is deadened skin, numb and twisted. Empty cells creating patterns. But he doesn't have many to show on the outside, no they're all on the inside where he can't rip the scabs off and watch them bleed. He can't open old sores and cleanse them, all that's left is this wrongness of what he once was. Is he nursing a broken heart, a broken soul or simply the 'poor little rich boy' is just a puzzle never to be put back together again? Too many pieces have been lost, kept by others never to be returned.  
Logan's innocence was the first piece to go. The first time he realized daddy's anger didn't stop at words or a smack on the bottom. The first time when he was old enough to take part in the ritual by choosing the correct belt. Boy, did he get it wrong the first times. Tried to get away with the softest smoothest calf skin belt, or a shorter one so he wouldn't get that long swing. But Logan learned, as he learned how not to cry or show his mom how much it hurt. Cause it only made her cry. And he never could take her tears.  
Lilly was Logan's first love, his first everything and she took a big piece with her when she died. How to love someone so much it hurt, how it felt to be loved back, to laugh and touch and hold her in your arms. How to treat your girlfriend like a queen, and how to get punished when you were out of line. She taught him the ropes, and he handed her the reigns with a happy grin. Cause Logan trusted her, Lilly was his everything.

She left an even bigger gaping hole with her legacy of sextapes with her and Aaron. His own dad for chrissake.  
So he tried to patch that hole up - with Veronica he even forgot it was there. Maybe he lied to himself, maybe he wanted to feel happy again so badly he fooled himself he was in love. Or maybe he wasn't lying at all, which would be worse seeing how it was all fucked up. And maybe she did lo... Except he never lets himself finish that thought, she took that scab and ripped it off. Like a band-aid. Left him a gaping maw again, hollow and empty and nothing to fill it. The snark and words doesn't do it. It doesn't matter how much he tried to hate her, how much he tried to hurt her cause it never got any better. Nothing to tie the edges together.  
And poor Duncan who lived in his own little world. When Veronica came between them Duncan easily forgot his friends. But then, Logan screwed up first there didn't he? Fell in love with his best friend's ex, so he deserved what he got. Right? Though, good old Duncan screwed up even worse than Logan did, and Logan learned yet again that everyone leaves. No matter how good reason, he still fucking left. Selfishness is easy when you only have yourself.  
And then the mother load of evil nasty backlashes. Already hollowed out, his father's smile of success made his insides feel like pieces of broken glass, jagged deep cuts that could never bleed themselves dry. Twisting and turning, nauseating and burning sparks of hate and the collision of knowing that this man was still his father. Deep down he still gave a fuck, no matter how he tried to cut the ties.

Because all that hate had to come from somewhere right? Hate doesn't come from not caring, hate doesn't come from not giving a damn. Hate comes from caring too fucking much that he was still alive, that he was still free and that he could still hurt him even now that he was never close enough to do it by hand.

Hatred comes from that twisting worm inside that whispers in your ear that you still wants daddy's approval, even though you know that you'd rather kill him than ever hearing him say he's proud of you. Cause you're ashamed with a bitterness that sticks in your throat that he is what made you, what raised you and what made you want his love.  
These are the mangled pieces Logan remembers all too well.  


\-----

  
Waking up lying on a damp towel is not new, there have been all those times when he's had a shower and then crashed in bed too tired, too stoned or too drunk to remember to remove the towel to keep the sheets dry. The surprise is that he's not alone, there's a tattooed arm stretched out on Logan's blindingly white sheets, contrasts not only in color. But in class, in townparts crossed and worlds collided. He's still got the taste of tequila in his mouth, and he remembers how it tasted when he licked it off Weevil's skin.

What started as a random night of getting drunk, playing cards and ignoring the facts that Weevil's out of a crew and Logan's got nothing left anchoring him at all ... took a turn to something new when the need to forget became a need to feel. To connect with something, logic made in a drunken haze.

But Logan would rather die than admit there was curiosity - what had Lilly ever seen in this guy? Why had she ever wanted to be with him, so different from what she was? Of course, he was a boy from the wrong side of the tracks so it's possible he was simply a tool to upset her daddy dearest with. But she never flashed her Weevil card to dad so that couldn't be it. Maybe she had this big scheme planned, but Logan doubted it - it didn't go with anything he knew about Lilly Kane. Lilly was beautiful, clever and deceiving, and easily told lies but she didn't plan things far ahead. She wouldn't have had the patience to keep a secret like this without hinting about it to anyone. Without getting the need to be questioned and look into eager eyes that wanted to know the secret, and she could hold it like a juicy bone teasingly above.

It must be something else, some other reason why Lilly had been so tight-lipped about Weevil. Aaron had been too big of a secret to keep, tickling her ego in all the right places Logan imagined, and she'd happily grinned like a Cheshire cat sitting on a treasure. Or so Veronica had told him when they'd whispered secrets to each other in the backseat of the X-Terra.

He wanted to know if he could taste it, feel why Weevil was a secret to be kept when all other secrets had been told. What was so frigging magical about him? But he couldn't find what Lilly saw, not in muscles that was unfamiliar to find under his hands instead of soft giving female flesh. Not in strong grip and bruising hands, not in stubbleburn between his thighs or those soft wide lips wrapped around his dick. Not in the calloused hands on his skin, teasing, touching, branding in his name into Logan's skin. Into his dick that would always remember and compare it to soft girly hands that had always had a manicure.

Instead Logan created his own Weevil-esque secret. Of tattoos under running water, droplets clinging to hot skin that he could trace with his tongue, bite down on a crown in black ink and bruise it. Dig his fingers deep into the heart of Lilly and feel Weevil's ribs expand against his own. The sharp teeth in his tongue as protest when Logan mashed their lips together too hard, dug too deep and wanted too much. Those soft lips that are swollen and wet and those long dark lashes on eyes that see too much, and not thinking about how they looked when he came into your right hand, on your stomachs before the hot spray of the shower rinsed it away. Waterdrops tickle as they run down his face and Logan's not thinking about how wide Weevil's eyes can be when they watch you, how dark and black as they take in the surprise on your face as you realize how much you enjoyed watching him come. Knowing that you made him arch and shudder in your arms. How it felt to hold him, because he held you right back. Strong and unrelenting, still standing and not moving no matter how you pushed him. He only pushed back, blood in your mouth, teeth against teeth clacking hard. But your tasting each other, fighting for a closer grip and you fit in a strange way. Like a magnet and its target. With Veronica it's different, too alike, like two magnets pushing each other away just by the force of being the same. Mirrors of pain and loss and knowing just how to hurt each other the best.

The day after finds Logan hungover, but he's pausing to look into the mirror. Still a shadow of what he once were, old in just a year. No longer the teenage jackass who gets all the girls, who wakes up after a binge with a smile on his face and ready to go again. His eyes are red and his hair flat on the side that's been stuck to his pillow after he completely crashed, lines in his face from creases in the fabric. Nothing major different than yesterday. Except his lips are reddened and swollen and look thoroughly kissed. His chest, his neck and even his arms are scattered with reminders of the night. Standing naked in front of the full length mirror he slowly traces his hands over tangible memories, his skin buzzing with the imprints of Weevil's teeth and fingers. The slight throbbing pulse in that deep red crescent of Weevil's teeth just at the crease of his hipbone, to make sure Logan remembered who he turned to in blind need. Like Logan's one big map of 'Weevil was here'.

Teethmarks, stubbleburn and bruises so clearly not made by a girl. Logan presses his hand into one of the sore spots, his fingers clenching over the muscles from neck to shoulder where they are almost vivid red and blue. He remembers in slideshow pictures, snapshots of dark eyes and caramel skin, of that shaved head and it's soft bristles barely visible tickling the soft skin by his hear.

Of fingers digging into his hips, his back to mash him closer and take his mouth into possession. Logan was owned for a few hours last night. The worst of it? He liked it.  


\-----

  
Maybe there was a day when some things changed. He can't say for sure because he's not sure things really have changed, just an impasse in the hatred and the punishment of Logan Echolls.

Because on the day of the second anniversary of Lilly's death there was enough sorrow and liquor to make them forget caution, no time or place for second thoughts. When their jagged pieces of hurt and memories were allowed to dissolve for a moment, to just let the anger between them morph into something else, comforts of the flesh.

They are a trinity in fucked up loneliness, and often when he's supposed to be sleeping he instead lies there in the dark, watching the ceiling and aching for it to be morning so the night will just be over with. During the day there are at least distraction, here it's too quiet, too empty to keep your thoughts from running free. Nothing to stop your mind from conjuring images of Lilly's body splayed like a broken doll, like a toy someone had used too roughly... someone - dad. Torn down when she no longer followed the rules of the game.

The thoughts are crowding in, swallowing Logan up, imagining his dad's hands on her. Those hot hands who swing the belt with a cold eye touched her and she enjoyed it. His father's body enveloping her, tangling with hers underneath the sheets, and Lilly's smile. She fucking smiled on the video. And she knew what his father was like. Lilly knew every mark on Logan's back, she knew how to hold him without touching them when they were fresh, without hurting him more. Only to later find pleasure in those hands?

It's those nights when things are crowding too close that Logan brings them up in memory and wishes they were here with him. Veronica's angled and hard eyed but still touches him with soft hands and he can't believe how much she still cares if she let's herself. If you break the shell she's so soft underneath, a ragged opening you could tear through and lure her into safety. To use her compassion to break her apart. But it's nothing Logan desires. He wants to hold her, to make her sigh and smile, plead out his name and show him it can be said in other ways than anger and pity.

Logan's greedy, he wants Weevil here as well. He misses his unforgiving touch that break him apart and makes him not think, just feel. Weevil's teeth in his skin, his touch branded onto Logan's body and painting his belonging. Weevil who's lost his best friend, his brother to another brother. Who's had to save his gang just to let them go. Weevil who can hold him down, press his face into the pillow and let him cry out all those things he can never say out loud unless your force it out of him. Pushing it out of him, like drawing poison from a wound, filling him up with something less than hate and the jagged sharp feelings of knowing just how fucked up you are.

Hurting people is always Logan's first choice to get a reaction out of them. Because if you strike first, you're in control as they'll be striking in retaliation and he knows all about the games of domination and hate. After all he did grow up in the Echolls house didn't he. Watched his mother bend so she wouldn't break, watched her close her eyes so she could continue to lie to herself. Made the guilt about not protecting him so much easier. How she tried in her own way to comfort when all he'd really wanted was her defending him. Weevil let's him whisper those words and retalliations into the pillow, lets him cry angry tears scaldingly hot that he can later brush away as sweat. To be brought that close to the edge and made to dance on it pushes Logan out of his own skin and allows him rest for a while.

Now he wanted them here, on both sides, crowding him and warming up this cool bed. That they were here instead of old bruises he touches to push away the other memories crowding for attention. The mark from her small teeth flares when he dig his fingers into it, resting on his right hip and thinking of the five prints in blue from the strong hand that had grasped him tigher, closer and in position. This is how he tries to remember now and forget yesterday.

Sometimes he lets himself think about the past and not grieve over things he can't change or over things he wished he didn't know. He thinks it's freaky how many things they ended up sharing. All three of them have given parts of themselves to Lilly, loved her and still misses her even when they wish they could stop. They never speak of her together, but they all have mememories of her taste, how she looks when she comes and how fucking deliriously happy you can feel when you're being in Lilly's shining light, being the center of her attention. Now the triptych has shifted. Weevil and Veronica never goes any kinds of physical past friends, but they share him instead. They both know what Logan looks like, taste his anguish and the way he breaks when he comes.

And maybe the memories etched into his skin are the only ones that are real.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in Veronica Mars fandom so all comments are very welcomed. Beta'd by minxfic (thank you!), and this fic was written for svmadelyn's 2006 [Cuff 'Em, Vamp 'Em, or Just Make 'Em Come Already Kink and Cliché Multi-Fandom Challenge](http://svmadelyn.livejournal.com/346658.html). (and honestly, I was planning to write a less angsty and more heavy on the sweaty sex story... )


End file.
